


The Four Horsemen

by Rehfan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Crimes & Criminals, Dark!Lestrade, Dark!Mycroft, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, Food Poisoning, French Kissing, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Organized Crime, Poison, Prohibition, Rough Sex, Spanking, Violence, dark!Sherlock, dark!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-21 02:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine a world where the American prohibition of alcohol in the 1920's actually happened in Britain.</p><p>How far do you think Mycroft Holmes would go to protect his speakeasy empire?</p><p>Based on this Tumblr photoset: http://rehfan.tumblr.com/image/37791199650<br/>Many thanks to original poster: mrsmob-married-to-the-mob.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Devil Holds Court

Mycroft sat at the head of the table in the smoky back room of the speakeasy. It was one of six clubs he owned and ran. He stared down the four men who were going to help him keep those clubs going strong: two men he knew he could barely trust, one he could never trust, and the last was the most dangerous: his own brother.

Three of the men in the room were of a certain genius. The other two were trained killers in one fashion or another. He surveyed their attitudes as they waited for him to speak. The doctor and the corrupt detective inspector were quiet and patient, two important traits usually found in assassins. The other two were barely able to contain their impatience, twitching, heaving sighs, and giving Mycroft annoyed looks.

“Gentlemen,” Mycroft said finally, “She’s got to go.”

“We know that, brother,” said Sherlock impatiently, “But how does one take out so prominent an obstacle – especially with the… connections she has?”

“That would be the great question,” said Mycroft. “Which is why I’ve called you all here today. She and I have had a long-standing confrontation that has proven to be detrimental to our business affairs. And considering that she’s seen me and has never seen you, you four need to take care of this.”

“Easy. Long-range rifle. Bullet to the head,” said Greg.

“Rather crude,” said Mycroft distastefully.

“Yet entirely effective,” countered the doctor.

“And it would make her a social martyr,” Mycroft argued. “No. We can’t have that.”

“And,” Jim chimed in, “no fun at all.”

“What do you suggest then, psychopath?” said Greg to Jim.

“Tsk, tsk,” scolded the Irishman, “’Sociopath’, if you please, my dear detective inspector.”

“Whatever,” Greg grumbled, “What’s your plan?”

“I think she’d be made more useful if she were… more on our side. That’s all,” he said with a wicked grin.

“You mean torture,” said John, his face pulling a grimace of disgust.

“You object?” said Jim, “How many people have you killed over the years, doctor? And here you are, objecting to a little torture?”

“Killing and torturing are two very different things,” said John.

Oh, that’s right,” said Jim, his eyes twinkling with impish delight, “you’re an Angel of Death.”

“Shut it,” said John.

“Gentlemen,” interjected Mycroft. “I like to think of you all as my own personal Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Rather fitting, considering how we’re going to deal with our… problem.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “So… you do have a plan,” he said. Mycroft nodded. “Explain,” said Sherlock.

“Gladly,” said Mycroft and he leaned in and informed the Four Horsemen as to how exactly they were going to destroy Mrs. Eugenia Hudson, crown prosecutor.


	2. Famine

He stood on the stoop of 221 Baker Street, smoking a cigarette, and watched the retreating taxi. He was huddled against the cold in his long black coat, but he barely felt it. She had a deadbolt on her door so it was a moment before Sherlock managed to get in. He knew her rooms were on the first floor, the second and third floors having been vacated some time before. They would be let out soon enough, however -- especially if Mycroft got his way. And Mycroft always got his way.

He put on his gloves and headed straight for her medicine chest. He replaced her normal bottles of perfumes and tinctures with the duplicates and smiled at his reflection in the mirror. Mycroft dubbed him “Famine” and he supposed it was only fair. He never really ate anything. And he was rather pale. Besides, the chemicals he was spreading about would definitely cause some significant weight loss in the dear old girl.

He made his way to the kitchen and produced a spray bottle from his inside pocket. A chemical compound of his own design, it was meant to be tasteless and odorless. He sprayed down the basket of fruit in the center of the kitchen table and turned to the fridge. He opened up the icebox and tipped some of the chemical in the milk bottle and sprayed more over the hunk of cheddar cheese, the head of lettuce, and all of the tomatoes. The spray wouldn’t permeate the shell of her eggs, so he just left them.

It wouldn’t matter anyway. Between the doctor’s ministrations and his chemical compound, she wouldn’t be feeling very well before long. As it was, the first hit that was administered to her via her lunch yesterday afternoon was enough to prompt her to seek a doctor's advice. And Mycroft had used his contacts at St. Bart's to arrange for her to be seen by a very specific doctor. It was all part of the plan.

And that was alright with Sherlock. He didn’t like her sniffing around their business, to be sure. But in Sherlock’s eyes, the good Mrs. Hudson had performed a greater sin. It was one thing for her to think Mycroft dangerous – any sane person would -- but to assume that Sherlock was somehow less dangerous than his brother and therefore beneath her notice was insulting and appalling. The woman was obviously an idiot.

Had she half a brain, she would have realized that Sherlock was the more deadly. He was the one with access to the chemicals necessary to kill half of Europe. Honestly, he missed the war just for that reason. One very selective poisoning and a piece of evidence pointing to a convenient enemy, whole nations would quake. And it would have all been his doing. Sherlock basked in the glory of that dream for a moment before continuing to contaminate Eugenia's kitchen.

He took down a well-worn mug from the cupboard and sprayed it down, replacing it on the shelf in the exact same way. He did the same with every other cup, all the dishes, and all the eating utensils.

She was supposed to get sick enough to have to give up her position. Sherlock thought it was too good for her. He wanted her disgraced, discredited, professionally and personally destroyed. And even then, that wasn't enough. He wanted to see her in pain. Perhaps he could talk Mycroft into letting Moriarty visit her just before she kicked off this mortal coil. It was a thought anyway.

Before he left, he shut her door and sprayed down the outside handle. Fuck this bitch. Sherlock hoped she choked on her own vomit tonight.


	3. Pestilence

He hated the moniker Mycroft had given him: “Pestilence”. He wasn’t a disease. Hell, for years he would cure disease… and sickness. He sat in his office and thought of all those years before when he had the heart of a Medical Crusader. God, he was an idiot.

John lit a cigarette and waited for the call from his nurse to let him know when Mrs. Hudson would be in. It seemed a shame to slowly destroy this woman. If he were honest, John actually liked her. But she had to go putting her nose in. She had to be a crusader for Justice. That made her an idiot too.

He shook his head. Still, she was meddling in affairs with which she had no business. It wasn’t just about the speakeasies for John – although the money was very alright. It was the principal of the thing. You couldn’t have dames just poking their noses in the affairs of men. It wasn’t natural. Not the way of things. Of course, this was coming from a guy who liked to bugger his employer’s brother on the regular, so there was that to consider.

Notwithstanding the hypocrisy, by John’s logic, if the crown prosecutor had been a man… well, there might have been a little room for negotiation: a slapper or a rent boy sent to him every week, free access to the clubs, free booze, a little cash in his pocket to lose at the roulette tables, and all for a turn of the cheek. A man you could communicate with; a woman… good luck.

And with this broad – there was no way. She was as straight as an arrow and twice as sharp. She had no apparent weaknesses. She had no kids, no family. All she had was her job. It made John sick to think of a woman doing nothing but working at a man’s job all her life. It was completely unnatural. She should have kids. She should be knitting her grandkids jumpers and shit. Ah well… what the fuck were you going to do?

John sighed as the office intercom buzzed. He flipped the switch and leaned over. “Yes?” he said.

His nurse’s voice came over the intercom: “Your next patient is here, doctor: a Mrs. Hudson.”

“Yes,” said John standing and putting on his lab coat. “Send her in.”


	4. War

He hated this. Something about working with these twats was getting to Greg. He stood over the body of the dead male prostitute and tried to care. He couldn’t. He wanted out. He couldn’t stand this place and these people and procedure… it was all a fucking waste. Especially when he could be owning his own club right about now.

He could see himself in pin stripe suit and spats looking dapper as fuck. He’d have all the greats on his stage: Lady Day, the Duke, everyone. He wouldn’t care if it were a mixed club. The darkies’ Cotton Club was going gangbusters. Why shouldn’t he have them in his place? Of course, that meant doubling the toilets and serving dishes… so maybe he’d have two clubs. That was more like it. Double the money too. Perfect.

“Sir?” said Anderson, “Why are you smiling?”

“Huh?” said Greg. “Oh… No reason. Just thinking of something else. You all done?”

“Yes, sir,” said Anderson, snapping the clasps of his bag and toting it out of the room. “Looks like a simple case of heart attack. His female companion must have run off.”

“Yeah,” said Greg absently. Female companion? Not bloody likely. Greg knew who this prossie was. He had hired him three months ago for a blow job. He was pretty good with his mouth, by Greg’s recollection. Too bad he kicked off now. Greg could have used with a bit of stress relief. Ah well. 

After all had left the scene, he bent over and gathered up the used condom from the floor. It was concealed under the side of the bed, but from where Greg had been standing he could see it as plain as day. Thank God Anderson was so damn useless. Christ, he was blind.

He placed it in a paper bag he got from his pocket and placed it back into his breast pocket. He would have preferred to have gotten a used condom from a rent boy live and in person, but just as he was about to go off duty this case came up and… well, what the hell?

Besides, a dead rent boy with a missing customer is better scandal than Mycroft could have hoped for. Perhaps Mycroft would even be generous. One could only hope. Then again, he’d never been able to turn that particular Holmes’ head before now. Too bad really. Greg was an amazing lay. Idly, he wondered what might happen to him if he grabbed Mycroft and snogged the fuck out of him. Probably nothing good.

He watched the coroner’s men haul the body away and decided that he would just have a beer and go home. Some thoughts were just fucking depressing.

On the way back to his flat, Greg stopped by his local. He had no sooner taken his first sip when a fight broke out at the far end of the bar. Greg watched it for some time, mildly amused. His own youth had been smattered with a pub fight here and there. It was nostalgic for him to watch this great tall slack-jawed pillock dust up with the beefy guy who runs the boxing club down the road.

Soon the fight became pub-wide as the two burly men struck table and chair, patron and barmaid in their battle. Screams mixed with broken glass and Greg thought it all wonderful.

“Say, aren’t you the police?” said a woman behind the bar.

“Not tonight,” said Greg as he watched the melee.

Sirens sounded in the distance. Someone had called the boys in blue. Ah well… it was fun while it lasted. Greg swallowed the rest of his pint and left out the side door just as the police car was pulling up to the main entrance. Just like the cunts to ruin a perfectly good fight.

Greg shook his head. He really couldn’t wait to get rid of that Hudson broad. He needed clear sailing. And it had to come soon. Or else he really was going to kill someone.


	5. Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Put in Westwood and Spencer and Hart references, and I know that's out of date for the story.... but it's a fic. Roll with it.

Jim straightened his tie and regarded himself in the full length mirror. Vivian Westwood always looked good on him. He didn’t understand how Sherlock could bear to wear Spencer and Hart, but ah well. As his valet brushed his coat and he straightened his pocket handkerchief, he considered his role in this farce.

He was supposed to show Eugenia a good time: be charming, suave. She had a weakness for a young man with ambition and a bit of money. Add a secret vulnerability to his character and she was sold. It was going to be too easy. Richard Brook would sweep the bitch off her feet. He gave himself an indulgent smile then frowned.

Of course, it was all a waste of time. He didn’t mind the deception so much as he minded the ultimate purpose: scandal. A good scandal could have its uses of course, but this was utter shite. Mycroft’s game was a long one and could possibly pan out by next Christmas, but who had that kind of time? Honestly, it was like they weren’t on a fucking clock. Prohibition couldn’t last. It wouldn’t last. And since its death was imminent, didn’t Mycroft realize the money he could be making if he branched out?

So many opportunities were going to waste over this; it was insane. Take the prostitution angle: offer up a bit of extra with every gin purchase and you’d have ‘em rolling in by the droves. And once prohibition had gone the way of the dodo, you had that and the gambling to fall back on. But Mycroft wasn’t thinking along those lines. He just wanted to expand what he had. It was like putting all your eggs into one basket. It made no sense. It showed no forethought. It was so… ordinary, obtuse. Myopic moron.

And this plan of his had too many working parts: Sherlock doing something with his chemicals; Lestrade manipulating evidence of some kind; John treating her for some unknown illness… and Jim’s role as a fop and seducer. What did it all mean, ultimately? Where was Mycroft going with this mish-mosh of impossibilities?

No… Mycroft Holmes needed to take a page from Thoreau: “Simplify, simplify, simplify”. Just get her in a room and re-program her. It would take a couple of days at best. She’d be more pliable and Mycroft would have the wiggle room he needed to expand his precious bootlegging and protection business. But Mycroft would never listen to him.

Jim sighed as he slipped into his evening coat. He turned and his valet handed him his hat.

That’s who he felt like: Mycroft’s valet, a lapdog. Jim felt the dark pit in his soul expand as his malevolence for Mycroft increased. He should be leading the game, not being her fucking rent boy. He should be in charge. But one does not grasp power easily. The better game is to slip into it. And the even better game is for someone who’s trusted by the majority to hand over the scepter and crown over. But who in their tight-knit little group hates Mycroft enough to help him? And who would be loyal enough to Jim to stick by his side and hand over the reins?

He stepped out into the streets of London, put on his leather gloves, and waited for his butler to open the car door. He would have to find someone soon. He didn’t think this whole “Richard Brook” thing would last very much longer. He might have to kill the bitch himself before long.


	6. Pestilence Loves Company

John was panting and covered in sweat. He grunted. Placing his hard cock into Sherlock’s heat was the best goddamn part of this week. All the stress of the patients and Mycroft’s subterfuge had come to a head and he needed the release only brought along by a long slow fuck.

He moved deeper into him. He watched Sherlock’s sweat-slicked skin practically glow in the moonlight as his muscles rolled under the skin. His breath was audible, but his head was bowed with concentration and John couldn’t wait to hear him softly moan out his name.

As they moved together their actions were muted; they didn’t dare get discovered through loud shouting or over-enthusiastic fucking. But this is the way they preferred it. Minimal talking allowed them to appreciate everything else. John leaned forward and licked Sherlock’s spine just between his shoulder blades. He pulled out slowly. He heard Sherlock whimper with the loss of pressure. John bit at his skin. Sherlock’s breath stuttered and he slowly pushed back in.

This started out as a release for both of them. Over time, sex became a silent agreement, and finally metamorphosised into a secret relationship. They would meet up once a week, always on a different day at a different hour, to discuss their week, share some time, and enjoy each other carnally. It worked for them. Of course, it would have been much better to be able to be up front about who they were and what they wanted, but society was being the proverbial bitch.

He liked Sherlock -- and not just because he was stunningly beautiful and a fantastic lay. He genuinely liked the guy. He was extraordinarily smart and precise. He was always punctual and, whenever possible, early. John’s military background made him appreciative of precision and punctuality. He had this uncanny way of predicting the movements of others based on the size of their cufflinks or the way a man wore his hat.

John smoothed a hand over Sherlock’s back as his resolve broke. His rhythm became quicker, his hips rolling and snapping as he moved in and out of the man writhing beneath him. He gripped his hips tighter and thrust himself with wild abandon into Sherlock, enjoying the feel and the slap, slap, slap of skin against skin.

The wave of orgasm came over him and he collapsed over Sherlock. For several minutes it was just about their breath and hearing their heartbeats in their ears. Movements were slow and careful and eventually the two men were dozing fitfully in each other’s arms, John’s head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I’m poisoning her,” said Sherlock.

“Hm?” said John. “Poisoning who?”

“Hudson,” said Sherlock. “Mycroft has me over her flat spraying down her tomatoes.”

“Wait,” said John. “You’re the one making her sick?” He picked up his head and stared at him.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “And you’re helping me keep her sick, aren’t you?”

“No!” said John. “Your brother told me to treat her. Treat her as any other patient I would normally treat with an ailment. I’ve been trying to figure out what’s wrong with her – and this whole time… it’s been you?”

“He told you…” said Sherlock, “That’s interesting.”

“Interesting?” said John, sitting up. “Interesting? You’re brother’s been playing us against each other. And you think it’s “interesting”! Bloody hell.”

“No need to get so upset, John,” said Sherlock, sitting up against the headboard and lighting a cigarette.

“Wha--?” said John.

Sherlock blew smoke to the ceiling. “He has a plan to keep her from getting well too quickly -- enough to cause her to give up her position, but nothing permanent. She’s the first female prosecutor in England. There are many who doubt the woman’s capabilities just because she’s a woman. You don’t trust her on that score.” He raised an eyebrow at John waiting for the objection that he knew wouldn’t come. John was nothing if not honest about his sexist opinions. “And he’s right: if you kill her, she becomes a martyr. She’s even more of a martyr because of her sex and because of her position. But if you disgrace her, make her feel as though she can’t keep up her end of her job…The symptoms look like simple stress only magnified, don’t they?”

“Yes,” said John, shaking his head. “What the hell—I knew when Mycroft laid it all out for us but didn’t tell us specifically what the other was doing… Damn it.”

“Well, Mycroft was always… dramatic.”

“Yes, I can see that.” John sighed and leaned against the headboard. He took the cigarette from Sherlock and took a drag. Handing it back, he said: “When we met privately, he made it sound as though what I was doing was the fucking linchpin in the whole production. “Keep her going, John,” he said to me... Twat.”

“Instead of getting angry about it, let’s try and get ahead of him, shall we?” said Sherlock.

“What do you mean?” said John.

“I need more data. We need to talk to Lestrade,” said Sherlock.

“Why him?”

“You don’t honestly want to consult with Moriarty on this, do you?” asked Sherlock.

“That nutter?” said John, “No chance.”

“Precisely,” said Sherlock. “Which is why we need to speak to Greg. Let’s find out what he’s doing in all this, shall we? Perhaps with more pieces of the puzzle, we can figure out Mycroft’s end game and see if it will all pan out.” He took another drag from the cigarette. “My brother has been playing this too close to the vest for his own good. We need to be able to predict the outcome. That way we know whether to stand tall… or dodge the bullets."


	7. War Plans

“Here you go,” said Greg as he held up the bag containing the used condom. Dear God, Mycroft looked fuckable. Greg wondered how much weight his desk would hold. It looked sturdy enough. Greg cocked a smirk at Mycroft.

Mycroft was seated behind his ornately carved mahogany desk. He looked up from his papers. Greg stood in Mycroft’s study at the back of one of his more exclusive clubs and it was well-appointed for a ‘back room’. The walls were painted a warm carnelian color which gave a rich tone to the dark mahogany wood that made up all of the furniture and wainscoting. Floor to ceiling bookshelves were on almost every wall. A plush oriental carpet covered the majority of the wood floor. Two wingback chairs framed a finely carved fireplace. A fire burned low in it and the whole room was the epitome of fine comfort.

Mycroft internally wrinkled his nose at the appearance of Greg in the midst of this finery. It wasn’t that he loathed the man’s presence; on the contrary, he quite liked Greg. He was an alright bloke despite the fact that he was a murderous killer when need be. But at the current moment, his appearance left much to be desired. He appeared unshaven, disheveled, and possibly un-showered. And yet…. he observed the randy grin he was getting from the policeman and for a brief moment Mycroft entertained the idea of bathing Greg himself, shaving that stubble, and dressing him in the finest double breasted suit money could buy, but he shook off the thought. It was no use. Greg couldn’t possibly travel in his social circles and more than that, probably wouldn’t want to.

Mycroft regarded the brown bag which Greg held out to him. “Thank you, Gregory. Hang on to it. I’ll let you know when and where to place it,” he said. And he put his head down and concentrated on the employee wages he was trying to sort out.

Greg was slightly insulted at this, but not surprised. He was used to that particular grin getting him all sorts of sexual favors. He expected Mycroft to acknowledge the message he was trying to send – the fellow could notice the most subtle of things – and perhaps turn him down politely, but he was not prepared to be so thoroughly rebuffed. Dismissed was more like it. It made Greg do something that he hadn’t done in many years: doubt himself. What chance did he have with a guy like Mycroft anyway? What was he playing at? He decided that he needed to mentally regroup. He stalled for time.

“Nice place you got here, Mr. H,” said Greg. He meant it. Mycroft always had such good taste in things. Everything in this room matched Mycroft to a T. Once Greg branched out on his own, he would have to bring Mycroft in on some decorating tips or something. Greg was sure Mycroft had someone to take care of details like that.

Mycroft looked up again. Now Greg was wandering about looking at all the spines of the books. “Is there something else I can do for you, Gregory?” he asked. Greg seemed to ignore him, turning his head to the side to read the book titles more carefully.

“You’ve got a book here on how to breed orchids?” asked Greg.

“Yes,” said Mycroft.

“Why?” said Greg. “You don’t seem like the gardening type.”

“My late mother adored orchids,” said Mycroft. “I believe that’s one of her books.”

“Ah,” said Greg and went back to inspecting the shelves.

Mycroft stood and walked silently to Greg. He sidled right up beside him and spoke his name in a soft tone: “Gregory.”

Greg felt a shiver run down his spine. He stood up slowly and regarded Mycroft. He was always so… perfect. His hair, his face, his suit: all of him was just perfectly put together. He fit with the rest of the room. Suddenly, Greg didn’t feel like he belonged there. “I should go,” he said. He felt himself blush. He had intended to be very cavalier about visiting Mycroft. He wanted to be suave, debonair; but the truth was: he was none of those things. He was just a copper with an eye for the expensive life, a pretender. So much for the idea of shoving the man against the wall and snogging him senseless.

“If you have nothing more to say,” said Mycroft, “then I suppose you should go. I have the payroll to tally and cheques to make out.”

“Uh, yeah,” said Greg awkwardly. He stared at his feet for a moment and then looked up. Now or never, Greggy-boy. “Say, uh, Mycroft?”

“Yes?” said Mycroft.

“You wouldn’t happen to need a break or something, would you?” said Greg. “I mean… can I buy you a drink?” Greg was sure he was completely crimson by now. What the hell happened to him around this man? Why was he like this?

Mycroft grinned, amused. “You want to buy me a drink from a bar where you know you will be served for free?”

“Uh…,” said Greg, scratching his head, “I guess that is pretty stupid. You know what? Forget it. Stupid idea. I’ll just go home now. I’ll expect your call.” Greg slowly backed out of the room and went downstairs feeling like the biggest fool to ever walk the earth.

How could he have gone from arrogant and confident to whimpering tosser in mere seconds? That low soft voice Mycroft used to say his name was what did it. He said it like… well like a lover would have. But Mycroft couldn’t be entertaining the thought of dirtying his hands with the likes of him. Could he?

Once downstairs, Greg went to the bar and got an entire bottle of whiskey and a glass for himself. He went to a dark corner table and proceeded to drink his way to the bottom of the fifth.

Twenty minutes and half a bottle of scotch later, he got into a scrap with a loud mouth at the bar who was making all sorts of derogatory comments about Mycroft. Bold of him to do so, to be sure, but stupid all the same. Had Mycroft overheard any of it, the man would be waking up under the Thames wearing cement shoes. As it was, it was Greg Lestrade who heard him and Greg came at him swinging.

The two men broke two tables and three chairs, frightening patrons, and staff alike in their struggle before the club security men held them both back. They released Greg instantly. The other man was thrown out into the street. Mycroft watched all of this from a distance. After a minute he found Greg going back to his bottle. “I think you’ve had enough, don’t you?” he said, his hand gentle and warm on Greg’s raised wrist.

Greg set the glass on the table and nodded, “P’raps you’re right, Myc,” he slurred.

“Mycroft, if you please,” said Mycroft stiffly.

“Sorry,” said Greg, “Mycroft.” He looked up drunkenly into Mycroft’s eyes. He knew he had disappointed him somehow and this knowledge made him feel worse. He wasn’t wrong in his estimation.

“Go home, Gregory,” said Mycroft. “You’re drunk. And a drunken man is of little use to me.”

Greg’s eyes went wide with hurt and he swallowed hard. Damn it. God damn it all to hell. What the fuck was wrong with him? “Yeah, Mycroft,” he said, “Sure.”

He rose unsteadily to his feet and headed toward the door, weaving slightly. Sympathetically, Mycroft offered his arm to Greg. The drunken man took it and tried not to wrinkle Mycroft’s pressed jacket as they made their way to the door.

Greg had never been this close to Mycroft before. He could smell the man’s cologne. It was pleasant and almost heady. In his drunken haze, Greg stared at Mycroft’s mouth longingly; he wondered what his mouth tasted like.

Out in the street, Mycroft offered Greg a car to take him home. Greg demurred, preferring the bracing air to help bring him back to his senses. As he walked unsteadily away, Mycroft lit a cigarette and watched him. He was very much a diamond in the rough, our Gregory. Mycroft exhaled smoke and wondered just how “rough” rough could be.

Greg was four streets away from his flat when it began to rain hard. He pulled his overcoat collar up and hunkered down against the elements when a car pulled up beside him. The window came down and a familiar voice called out to Greg. He stooped to talk through the window. The door popped open and Greg climbed in. He was grateful to be out of the wet anyway.

Slowly the black saloon pulled away from the kerb and melted into the night.


	8. Opportunistic Death

Jim walked into the speakeasy, the bouncer giving him a tip of his hat as he passed by. No one liked to take chances with Mr. Moriarty. He went to the back room to find Mycroft. The room was empty. The barman said that Mr. Holmes hadn’t been in all evening. “He’s at the Bromley Street location today, sir,” he said.

“He changed his schedule, then,” Jim said, mostly to himself.

But the barman answered him anyway, “Yes, sir, Mr. Moriarty. It seems that way.”

Moriarty just glared at him and ordered a drink. He took it wordlessly from him and sat at his usual table against the wall. Mycroft was a man of particular habits, predictable habits. This change in his schedule was disconcerting. He needed to be able to predict Mycroft if he was to demolish the man. This was decidedly irksome. Things would have to change fast.

“But he has to be here,” said a man at the bar. The barman said something to him that Jim couldn’t hear but the man shook his head, “No!” He pounded his fist on the bar. “He has to be here.”

One of the bouncers came over to the man, no doubt asking him to leave. Jim watched all of this with detached interest. The stranger had a military bearing, blonde hair, cropped close, a muscular body, and two hands like sledgehammers because he managed to fell the bouncer with one blow. The three-hundred pound door gorilla landed on his back and the man turned back to the barman demanding to know where the fuck Mycroft was or he’d tear this place apart.

“Yoo hoo…” Jim called to him. The stranger looked over. His eyes were filled with annoyance and borderline-homicidal rage. Jim liked him immediately.

“What the hell do you want?” asked the stranger.

“I believe we have a common interest,” said Jim. He kicked out the chair to his left. “Have a seat. We can talk about it.”

The man stalked over to Jim’s table but ignored the seat. Instead he leaned over the table, his face thrust into Jim’s personal space. “I don’t want to talk. I want Mycroft Holmes.”

“As do I,” said Jim. “I came to see him here tonight, but he’s changed his schedule which was very rude of him. I mean, how does he manage to do business if no one can reach him?” Jim looked innocently at the man, his dark eyes wide.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Jim Moriarty,” said he and he stuck out his hand, “Hi.”

The predatory look in the man’s eye softened. “You’re Gentleman Jim?” he asked.

Jim laughed. “Is that what they’re calling me now?” he said.

“Yeah,” said the man, “They say you’re the politest torturer. Always remembering your manners as you pull people’s teeth out or smash their toes with a hammer.”

“Mmmm…” said Jim, taking a moment to savor the memories. “Yes… well. I suppose a man is nothing without his reputation.” He was still holding out his hand. He glanced at it, then back up at the man with a question in his eyes.

Realizing he faux pas, the stranger shook the proffered hand and said, “Sebastian Moran.”

“Well, well, well,” said Jim. “Talking of reputations…” He grinned slyly at Sebastian. “Please, Mr. Moran, do have a seat.”

Sebastian sat and soon the two of them were sharing a bottle of whiskey brought to them by the barman. “Now why on earth do you want to speak to Mycroft Holmes?” asked Jim as he poured a round.

“The bastard owes me money,” said Sebastian. He drank the whiskey quickly, seemingly unaffected by the alcohol taste.

“He hired you for a job?” asked Jim, intrigued. Usually Mycroft wasn’t this heavy-handed in his dealings. Oh but if Jim were in control… the city would burn.

“Yeah,” said Seb. “He called it off after I was in town though. Said he didn’t need my services anymore. I told him that all I wanted was compensation for my expenses to get here and my time. Not the whole price of the ticket, mind, but just enough to satisfy my operating expenses.”

“Perfectly understandable,” said Jim. 

“Yeah, but now the bastard’s nowhere to be found,” said Sebastian as he poured himself another glass.

“He can be a tricky one,” said Jim, he placed a hand on Sebastian’s and looked into the man’s crystalline eyes, “I’m so sorry you’ve had trouble. Tell me about the job he hired you for. It sounds like Mycroft’s been playing things a bit close to the vest if I hadn’t heard you were in town.” 

As Sebastian spoke, Jim nodded along. He looked sympathetic, but then, Jim could look any way he wanted to. He really didn’t feel anything. Until now. Sebastian had a way of carrying himself that made Jim almost… giddy. It couldn’t be love. Jim had never felt any strong emotion besides rage. It had to be lust then. Wanton desire. Yes… Jim wanted this man. He wanted this man to hurt him. And he wanted Sebastian to take it as he hurt him back.

The more Sebastian spoke of his frustration with Mycroft, the more Jim realized that he was perfect: a trained killer in a nest of killers. One that they weren’t expecting. Bloody fucking perfect. Made to order.

Jim made noises of sympathy as Sebastian talked, all the while thinking of exactly which suit he was going to wear to Mycroft’s funeral.


	9. The Devil's in the Details

Lestrade unlocked the door to his flat and turned on the light. Of all the things he was expecting to see in his sitting room, Mycroft Holmes wasn’t one of them. Instantly he reached for his pistol just underneath his arm, pausing only when his brain registered that it was his boss sitting there and not one of the competition’s thugs.

“My, we are jumpy tonight,” said Mycroft coolly. He played with the handle of his umbrella. Greg took in the full measure of the man as he slowly regained his normal heartbeat and walked to his hat rack. He put up his hat and coat and watched Mycroft (perfect, crisp, untouchable) as Mycroft watched him.

“What are you doing here?” asked Greg when he finally regained enough composure to speak.

“Visiting,” said Mycroft as if he had done it every day. In truth of fact, Mycroft had never been to Greg’s flat. Greg wasn’t even sure how Mycroft got the address. But then, he was Mycroft Holmes, and Mycroft always got what Mycroft wanted. “I was in the neighborhood and I was concerned that you made it home alright.” He glanced behind him at the rain-covered window. “Especially considering that it’s been raining cats and dogs practically since you left.”

“Yeah, well…” said Greg, heading to his icebox, “your boys ended up giving me a lift anyhow, so they should have told you I was fine.”

Mycroft looked at him curiously and had his mouth open to ask just what he was on about when Greg offered: “You want a cold one?” Greg held up a homebrewed beer.

Mycroft smiled demurely and declined. He asked, “Far be it from me to make a personal comment, but don’t you think you’ve had enough liquor for one evening, Gregory?”

Greg was about to uncork the stopper. He paused and looked at Mycroft. “You think I’ve had enough, do you?” Mycroft was bossing him in his own home? This was taking things a step too far in Greg’s estimation. Bad enough that Greg was humiliated once already by the man, but to come into his home and tell him how to live? Oh no. Oh hell no. “Why are you here, Mycroft Holmes? And don’t tell me it’s so you can give me orders on how to live my life, because telling a man what to do in his own home just ain’t cricket, you get me?”

Mycroft looked genuinely surprised at Greg’s defiant talk. And then he smiled. It was one of his rare genuine smiles, reserved only on those special occasions where he was truly contented and happy. All it did to Greg was confuse him.

“Why are you grinning at me like the cat that ate the canary?” he asked.

“Because very rarely does it happen that a person who knows me is actively defiant toward me,” said Mycroft. “I must say that I find it… refreshing. I think I like it -- especially coming from you, detective inspector.”

Greg thought he must have been dreaming. Did Mycroft Holmes just… flirt with him? “Sorry?” he said, stunned.

Mycroft smiled and crossed to him. He stood so closely, Greg could smell the man’s cologne and see the flecks in his blue eyes. Mycroft gently took the beer from his hand and set it down on a nearby table. “I think we can dispense with any more alcohol for this evening because I have very different plans for you, Gregory,” said Mycroft.

“Oh?” said Greg, licking his lips. “And what plans would that be, then?”

“Nothing you’d mind,” he said. “Trust me.” Mycroft leaned in closely and whispered in Greg’s ear. “I’m yours to command, Gregory Lestrade. Tell me what you like.”

Greg felt the blood drain from his face and shoot straight to his groin. “Wha—Mycroft?” he stammered. “Are you telling me that you… and me… I mean, with me? And you want me to--?”

“Yes, Gregory,” said Mycroft. “Please.” He pulled his head away to stare at the man. His mouth was mere centimeters away from Greg’s mouth when he added: “Make me your little bitch.”

The dam broke. Greg pressed a bruising kiss to Mycroft’s mouth, wrapping one strong hand around the back of the man’s head to control the kiss. Mycroft Holmes wanted Greg to order him about? Greg knew that it was all a sex game, that there was no way Mycroft was relinquishing any of his empire control to him, and that made things better. It made it all seem… just that much more… naughty.

Greg smiled as he pulled away from Mycroft. As good as this was going to be, Greg knew that Mycroft had his limits. There was still a question of how much control Mycroft was giving him. Greg asked: “Any lines I can’t cross?”

“Leave no visible marks or permanent marks,” said Mycroft. “Other than that… have fun. If I’ve had enough I’ll let you know.”

“How?” said Greg.

“I’ll say a word… call it a “safe word”,” said Mycroft. “It means that if I say it – even just once – everything we’re doing stops and for as long as I’d like.” 

“Got it. What’s the word then?” said Greg.

“Let’s pick something easy to remember, shall we? How about “alcohol”? I think that would work, don’t you?” said Mycroft.

“Right, very funny,” said Greg. “Alright, you say “alcohol” and it all stops. You ready?”

“Gregory, I’ve been ready for this since we met,” said Mycroft.

“Then get on your knees, you slut,” said Greg.

Mycroft’s eyes lit up and he did as he was told. He didn’t touch Greg. He just knelt there awaiting further instruction. Greg was dumbfounded that this was even happening. All those nights fantasizing about fucking this man into oblivion and he was just handed the opportunity to do just that in the matter of an instant. It was unbelievable.

Greg really wasn’t sure of what to do exactly. He decided just to trust his instincts. He reached out a hand and carded it through Mycroft’s hair soothingly. “You want it rough, then?” he asked.

“I want it the way you want to give it to me… sir,” said Mycroft. He looked like a kid on Christmas.

“You need to trust me completely in this, Mycroft,” said Greg. “Do you?”

He saw Mycroft sober up immediately. “Don’t ask me why,” said Mycroft, “But I do, Greg. I wasn’t sure I could when we first met, and up until recently I barely did. But at our last encounter I saw…” Here Mycroft trailed off, uncertain at the level of pride he was dealing with when it came to Greg.

Greg pressed him to continue: “Well?”

“I saw a certain… vulnerability in your eyes,” said Mycroft softly. “I’m sorry, Gregory. I don’t mean to embarrass you.”

Greg was embarrassed. He blushed and averted his eyes from the earnestness in Mycroft’s. Mycroft said: “Alcohol.” Greg blinked. Mycroft stood and looked down into Greg’s eyes. He kissed him softly. Slowly, Greg reached up and caressed Mycroft’s back under his suit jacket, smoothing the material of his silk shirt, his hands perceiving the warmth hidden inside. Tongues tangled and slid wetly, the kiss deepening, their movements slow and deliberate.

For a moment Greg couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Slowly the reality of their actions seeped into his brain and his hands moved everywhere along Mycroft’s torso. He attempted to memorize every nuance of what was happening, but there was so much to take in his poor brain couldn’t grasp everything. It was as if it were all happening to someone else but he was the one receiving the sensory information. 

Mycroft broke the kiss and Greg let out a whimper of frustration. “Perhaps I’ve taken things a bit too far too fast for us,” said Mycroft. “We can play the domination game another time, Gregory.”

“No,” said Greg. His confidence had just gotten a shot in the arm from that kiss and he wasn’t going to allow Mycroft to be disappointed in their first time. “I’m alright. You wanted it this way; I’m alright with giving you orders.” Feeling bold, he kissed Mycroft squarely but chastely. “Besides… I was just getting started with you, Myc.”

‘It’s Mycroft, Gregory,” he said, “I’ve already told you once.”

“I know,” said Greg, “but while you’re here and under my orders, you’ll answer to whatever I call you, be it slut, slag, or Myc.” He gripped Mycroft hard at the back of his head, causing the man to stiffen in his arms. “Do you understand me, boy?” Greg knew he was taking a bit of a risk, but he figured Mycroft could always use that safe word if he really hated what was happening.

Much to Greg’s satisfaction, Mycroft replied with a breathless, “Yes, sir.”

“Now where were we?” said Greg playfully, “Oh yes… on your knees, you filthy slut.”

Back on his knees, Greg gave Mycroft the order to undo his trousers. Greg damn near fainted when Mycroft licked his lips seconds before complying. Once undone, Mycroft got a wonderful eyeful of Greg’s hardened prick under his silk boxers. Greg sent another soothing stroke through Mycroft’s hair before giving his next orders: “I don’t want you to use your hands, Myc. I just want you to use your mouth. Suck me off, Myc. Put your face to my cock and suck me off like you’ve wanted to all this time.”

Mycroft let out a moan of anticipation, placed his hands behind his back and nuzzled into Greg’s crotch. Using his teeth, nose, and tongue he maneuvered past the material and Greg’s prick sprung free, the head already wet. Achingly slowly, Mycroft licked the underside of Greg’s shaft and wrapped his lips around the tip, sucking softly. Greg had been lightly caressing Mycroft’s head with his fingertips and it was all he could do to not shove the man’s head on his aching prick. Greg’s breath stuttered as he felt himself slowly become surrounded by Mycroft’s hot mouth. Soon enough, Mycroft had swallowed Greg almost up to the hilt. It was torturously delicious.

“Does that taste good?” Greg asked as Mycroft pulled off of him with a wet pop. Mycroft pressed his lips to Greg’s wet head and hummed his affirmation. Greg’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. Mycroft swallowed him down slowly once more and after a few more slow strokes, Greg praised him saying: “Jesus, Myc… you are such… a fucking amazing… little slut. Oh dear God… fuck me…That’s so fucking good.”

He looked down and locked eyes with Mycroft. He wanted to ask him: “Do you want me to come inside you this way?” but stopped himself. He was the one giving orders here, not Mycroft. He pulled Mycroft off his cock and heard the man give a cry of disappointment. Greg said, “No no, my filthy little boy. This is not how I want to cum inside you. Now stand up and strip naked.”

Greg took his clothes off at the same time as Mycroft, each man eyeing each other appraisingly. Greg was thicker muscled and a shade darker skinned than Mycroft, but Mycroft was not unappealing. His thin frame bespoke of flexibility that Greg was hoping the man had and his eyes took on a smolder of desire at the thought. Greg kissed Mycroft possessively, taking his head in his hands and pressing his body close. Their cocks came into brief contact and Mycroft gasped, but Greg held steady. He wanted this control. More than that, he wanted Mycroft to lose control underneath him.

They moved to the bedroom.

Twenty minutes later their sweat-soaked bodies were contorted as Greg penetrated deep inside Mycroft. He had Mycroft’s hips hitched up, knees thrown over his shoulders as he pushed slowly inside. He felt the rings of muscle give way over his head and Mycroft’s heat swallow him up. As soon as he was balls-deep inside the man, he paused, wanting to take charge and fuck Mycroft thorough the mattress, but at the same time not wanting to injure the man.

As he waited, Greg preoccupied himself with licking soothingly at the prominent bite mark he had left on Mycroft’s chest. He wasn’t sorry that he had lost control. On the contrary, he was proud to have left such a mark on this man. Greg felt as if this marked Mycroft as his and his alone. He said: “This makes you mine, you know.” Mycroft gave him a side-long stare but said nothing. Mycroft’s breathing was strange; he was fighting for control even then. His look to Greg was almost defiant. Something had to be done about that.

Greg leaned up to face him and took Mycroft’s face in one hand. “You are mine, you dirty whore. Do you understand? Mine.”

“I understand, sir,” said Mycroft, his eyes softening. Greg brought his mouth close to him, breathing in his air.

“You are mine and I will own you for as long as you… interest me. But don’t worry, love. I’m always careful with the things I own. You and me, we’re going to be alright. You understand?” Mycroft nodded. “Good. Now, I’m going to start this slow, but I want no arguments. You complain and I stop completely. You’re going to shut the fuck up like a good slut and take the slow fucking you deserve. Now.” Greg pulled out slowly and began to thrust inwards by almost imperceptible increments. Over and over, slower and slower, he moved in and out of the man. It was agony for Greg, but it was beyond torturous for Mycroft; he could feel himself be filled up so slowly only for that satisfying full feeling to slowly be taken away. It was inhuman.

Finally Mycroft had had enough and whimpered his frustration. Greg pulled completely out and Mycroft gasped. Greg swiftly pulled up Mycroft’s body and smacked Mycroft on his arse sharply and the man jumped in surprise. “Bad dog,” said Greg. “Now I’m going to have to start all over again.”

“No… no please… please,” begged Mycroft. He practically had tears in his eyes from the need.

Greg’s eyes went wide. “Are you presuming to tell me what to do, you filth?”

“No, s-sir,” said Mycroft. “Only… I need you to cum inside me, sir. Please…”

“And what if I don’t?” asked Greg. “What if I tell you not to cum as I suck you off? Would that be better, do you think? I think that would work as a punishment for you.”

“Oh God,” said Mycroft.

Greg moved down Mycroft’s body and licked the underside of his cock. Precum was coming out in copious amounts along his abdomen and Greg licked at that too. “No, Myc. I think that this would serve as a very good punishment for a very naughty little boy. Now… if you even think about coming in my mouth, I swear to God, I’ll spank you.”

Greg moved his mouth along Mycroft’s shaft doing everything he could to make Mycroft cum: trailing his tongue up and down the length of him, circling the head with just the tip, licking across the slit, flicking the frenulum. Mycroft twisted and grabbed at the sheets, his breath stuttering and gasping as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over him. The only warning Greg got was a cry of: “Son of a BITCH!” and he found himself reflexively swallowing warm spurts of cum.

Greg licked Mycroft clean and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He stared at Mycroft for the longest time, watching the man gather his wits about him once more. A post-coital Mycroft was a beautiful sight to behold. True to his word, and as soon as Mycroft could pull focus on him, Greg said simply: “Over. On all fours. Now.”

“Count,” said Greg and he swung at Mycroft with a firm open hand.

“One…”

“Two…”

“Three…”

Mycroft’s backside was already tingling and red, but Greg didn’t stop slowly spanking him until he reached “Ten…” He then rubbed the reddened area soothingly with his hands, kissing the sensitive flesh softly. He licked at Mycroft’s hole and felt the man jump and let out a sigh of pleasure. He spit in his already stretched and lubed hole and re-inserted himself inside.

This wasn’t about torturing Mycroft anymore. This fuck was for himself. He began his thrusting slowly, gradually building up steam until he was fucking Mycroft’s arse at full tilt and with wild abandon. It wasn’t long before he felt his balls tighten and his release soon followed. Burst after burst of cum spurted inside Mycroft and Greg’s speech went incoherent as his orgasm took him.

He leaned over Mycroft, placing his face into Mycroft’s sweat-soaked flesh and panting. He pulled out slowly and lay to one side of him. They looked at each other until their mutual exhaustion overtook them.

In the morning, Mycroft rose first. He went to the sitting room where he had left his clothes and dressed quietly. He came back to the bedroom, gave a sleeping Gregory a long soft look of affection from the doorway and, smiling to himself, closed the bedroom door behind him without a sound.


	10. Horsemen's Bargain

Greg Lestrade sighed as he deposited the used condom underneath the bed. He really didn’t see the point of doing this, but then, he didn’t see the point in a lot of what Mycroft did; for example, not being there when he woke the morning after their tryst. It was the best sex he’d had in forever, but a fat lot of good it meant to Mycroft apparently. 

Greg shook his head at the irony. It was usually he who left his conquests behind. It was strange to be on the other side of that fence. He felt like a ghost. He felt hollowed out; as though something inside of him had been removed without his consent and now he was walking around with the feeling as though he had been used. 

He knew it wasn’t true. He hadn’t been forced to participate in that evening’s activities. In point of fact, he was the one to make sure that Mycroft was sure about what he was asking. And Greg was the one giving the orders! How was it that he felt himself the victim? It made Greg’s guts churn to know how weak he was in all this.

He closed the bedroom door and went down the hall to wait for Sherlock. They had broken into Hudson’s flat together, but Greg had no idea why the Holmes brother was there. The man buggered off to the kitchen telling him in passing to put gloves on his hands before he touched anything. Sherlock seemed to know something Greg didn’t and he took his advice, placing his leather gloves on before entering her domicile.

Greg looked up when Sherlock moved toward him. “Touch anything?” he asked.

Greg held up his gloved hands. “Not a thing,” he replied. He saw Sherlock place a small bottle of something into his inside pocket and gave him a curious look but said nothing.

Sherlock was looking Greg up and down in a manner Greg didn’t particularly care for. He knew that look. That look was bad. That look meant that Sherlock Holmes was doing that thing that he does that makes everyone else uncomfortable. That look was the one he used to pry into everyone’s life and learn their deepest darkest secrets.

No one knew about Greg’s homosexuality and he didn’t care for anyone to find out. It was a good job he was such a dangerous man as most of his sexual conquests usually had the smarts enough to keep their gobs shut about his dalliances. As disgusted as the was by the way Mycroft left things between them, he trusted Mycroft because Mycroft had just as much to lose in this as he did. But it was still a fearsome thing to be analyzed by Sherlock Holmes.

Greg turned to leave and Sherlock let him, never relenting in his staring. Greg could feel it like a physical touch. Out in the open air of Baker Street, Greg spun on Sherlock and said, “Well? What is it then?”

“You had sex last night,” said Sherlock.

“So?” said Greg, lighting a cigarette as they walked back toward the car. It was Lestrade’s idea to park down the street and around the corner from Hudson’s place. If it were up to Sherlock, he would have taken a cab right to the front door. The man didn’t know the meaning of the word “subtle”.

“So… you had sex with a man,” said Sherlock, taking a drag off of his own fag.

Greg’s eyes went wide and he stepped close to Sherlock in his panic. “What did you say to me?” he said in a sharp whisper.

“Oh please,” said Sherlock, “It’s not as if I hadn’t figured you out within three hours of knowing you. I just hadn’t the chance to make use of that knowledge until now.”

They stopped walking and stared at one another for a moment. Greg’s mind was racing. What proof did he have of Greg’s preferences? As soon as he asked himself the question, he saw Sherlock’s eyebrow quirk upward and a smirk spread on his face. The answer was obvious: practically every rent boy in London could be pressured by a Holmes to reveal the truth. He could see both of the Holmes brothers using this information against him for the rest of his life. It would be just like them to do such a thing. Greg’s heart sank. He prepared for the worst as he asked: “What do you want?”

Sherlock watched the changes pass over Greg’s face as he mulled over his options. He knew he wasn’t dealing with an average idiot. That was good. And ultimately, Sherlock wouldn’t have exposed Greg because at best, his brother would be quite angry that his new fuck toy had been turned in for buggery; at worst, he would be condemning his brother – and as a natural consequence himself and John. It was too great a risk.

But as leverage goes, Greg’s ignorance of how wide-spread buggery was in this outfit was to his advantage. “I want information,” said Sherlock.

“What kind?” asked Greg.

“And I want you to do something for me,” said Sherlock.

Greg sighed. “Fine, fine,” said Greg, “what is it that you need?”

“I want to know what you were doing in Hudson’s place right now,” said Sherlock. “I know you were planting something, but what is it?”

“A used condom taken off of a dead male prostitute,” said Greg. “He wanted it done tonight and subtly. I placed it where Anderson might have a chance of finding it, but where I would definitely be able to spot it from an innocent angle should we be called here for any official reason.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. This was interesting. He and John were making her sick; Greg was working a sex angle. Sherlock wondered what Jim’s role was in all of this. He took a thoughtful drag off of his cigarette as he watched a cab trundle by. Greg instinctively turned away from the street. “What is it?” asked Greg. “What? You think it’s a bad idea? Because if you do, you need to talk to your brother about that.”

“I think it’s interesting,” said Sherlock, thinking aloud. “He said we would each have our roles in this. He named us each after a different Horseman, but I’m beginning to think now that instead of that being a clue to our jobs, it seems my brother was simply being overly dramatic.”

“Overly dramatic?” asked Greg. “I don’t know. I kind of like being called “War”. It makes sense to me. I’ve always loved a good shoot-out or pub brawl.” Greg looked the man up and down. “And if you’re Famine, I understand that too. There’s nothing to you, is there?”

“There’s more to me than you realize, detective inspector,” said Sherlock. He crushed out his cigarette and stared down at the man. “As to the other end of our bargain,” said Sherlock, “I need you to keep an eye on someone.”

“And who’s that? Mycroft?” said Greg. His heart warmed at the thought. He would have liked nothing more than to become Mycroft’s personal bodyguard -- if only to be able to give that arrogant fuck a piece of his mind. 

“No,” said Sherlock, “Jim Moriarty.”

Greg shivered but not with cold. Jim Moriarty was a snake of a human being. Greg spent half his time trying not to kill him and the other half wanting to kill him. He was a waste of human skin. “What the hell am I doing that for?”

“Because you care for my brother,” said Sherlock. Greg took a step back. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please don’t deny it, Greg. It’s beneath you to pretend.” Greg lowered his head and pursed his lips wondering if Sherlock figured out that Greg was Mycroft’s flavor of choice last night. He was relieved when Sherlock said: “You care about his well-being. You like the money he’s giving you, but more than that, you want a club of your own someday. You feel you can learn from him. In a way… you look up to him.”

There was no defense against these statements. Greg just looked at Sherlock completely stunned. Even though Sherlock didn’t say he suspected Mycroft’s interest in him passed the purely professional, he was amazed at the insight the man imparted upon him. “Personally, I don’t understand you,” continued Sherlock. “But I do think it sort of sweet. It’s like you’re the brother he wished he had in me.” Tempting as it was to give Sherlock a look that bespoke of Mycroft’s “brotherly love”, he remained silent and waited for the man to continue.

“Watch Moriarty,” Sherlock ordered. “He has designs on my brother’s empire, if not his life. I don’t know how he plans on achieving his goals, but he has a plan. I need someone keeping an eye on him; someone without an agenda, someone beneath his notice. And you with your outward yet ultimately impotent animosity for him are made to order.”

Greg wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or complimented by all this. After a moment he asked, “And you trust me to do this job properly because otherwise you’ll rat me out to my superiors at the Yard?”

“Oh no, detective inspector,” said Sherlock, giving him a sickeningly sweet smile. “I trust you to do this job and do it well because if you don’t, I’ll sick Moriarty on you.”

“How—?” asked Greg.

“You know I can,” said Sherlock. He leaned in closely to Lestrade and whispered: “Best just to nod and smile at this point, Greg.”

Greg felt sick as he nodded his compliance.

It burned him to realize just how talented the Holmes brothers were at making him feel small. As he walked to the car he made himself a promise to never let that happen again. And he would start with Mycroft Holmes. He was done being used.


	11. Concerns

“Phone call for you, sir,” said the bartender. Mycroft was just at the door of the closed club. It was the wee hours of the morning and he was exhausted. He thought for a moment and realized that this call could only be one person and he didn’t want to take it. Sighing, he turned to his driver and said, “Go start the car. I’ll be right there.” He set down his umbrella and briefcase and walked to the far side of the room to take the call. “Sherlock,” said Mycroft into the receiver. “What do you want at this late hour?”

Suddenly, the windows of the front door smashed open with the impact of the explosion.

 

~080~

 

Three hours later, he was back at home and nursing a headache. He lay on his sofa in the east sitting room and mulled over the facts. Someone had tried to kill him; that was obvious. Sherlock and Jim have motive. They’re ambitious. Well… Jim is anyway. Sherlock just wants the power.

If Sherlock had his way, he would rule with an iron fist and have the clubs become honey traps so that he could get a hold in government -- which isn’t to say that that’s not Mycroft’s ultimate goal. There are four Lords that spring to mind as it is in that regard, but no matter. The tack Sherlock would take would be akin to the proverbial bull in a china shop. Mycroft loved his brother, but as intelligent as he was, he still saw the pirate in him and didn’t trust it.

Still… if Sherlock did it, why would he have called him at the last minute? Sentiment? Never. It was a puzzle he had yet to solve and required more information before proceeding.

Moriarty on the other hand was devious in the extreme. The man’s talent as a chameleon was unparalleled. It was frightening how he could turn it on and off. He was a true sociopath, indeed. He always knew what to say to make people do what he wanted, a master manipulator. And he wanted power. Mycroft could see that from the first. His ambitions for power were wide-spread and if he got a foothold in Mycroft’s dealings – if he knew about the Lords, for instance – he would twist those men until they bled.

Moriarty would expand as well. He’d have a finger in every pie; he’d know about all the skeletons in every closet. And he would use all that information to build himself an empire. While Mycroft recognized the genius that this would take, he himself would never attempt it. By the time that much power was acquired, there would be no time to enjoy it. A man would constantly be on the look-out for the next one to try and topple him. Of course, this is the very thing Mycroft was doing now and his “empire” was nowhere near the size that Jim had in mind.

Mycroft shook his aching head at the thought of the ambitious Moriarty. The man was a danger. He should have one of the other boys put him down, but what he was doing regarding the Hudson affair was too delicate for him to be extricated in such a way. As it was the lady was fond of Richard Brook. If he were to disappear she would have a nationwide manhunt conducted to find him. And that would be rather inconvenient. 

As to who could rig a bomb to his car, both John and Lestrade had means. John was ex-Army; Greg was a police officer. Either one of them had experience with incendiary devices. In truth, Mycroft had sent both of them out at different times to do to others what had happened to him. And they followed through without flinching.

Despite being a doctor, John was not averse to taking a life. But the man had no motive in this. He was content with the money he earned through the clubs and he did his part when asked. He lacked ambition. Mycroft smiled. This was exactly why John was so good for his brother. John’s cold and callous mean streak was nothing compared to Sherlock’s. He tempered his brother without meaning to. It was nice to see them both so contented. So no, John was out… unless Sherlock was the one who asked him to do it. But then we were back to the reason behind Sherlock’s last-minute phone call again. Something didn’t add up there.

Greg had a bit of motive in that he wanted his own club. It was no secret to Mycroft who had been watching the man with avid interest. Mycroft honestly didn’t want to consider Greg as a suspect. He liked the fellow too much. But perhaps that’s why he never spotted it: he was too close. And considering what had happened between them last night… No. Mycroft would think more about Gregory – about all of them -- after he’d had a good night’s sleep. He had never felt so weary.

He had loosened his tie and was about to take off his shoes when the phone rang. If this was Sherlock again calling to gloat about saving his life, he was going to use some choice words that his younger sibling wouldn’t soon forget. It wasn’t Sherlock.

“Jesus, man,” said Greg, “are you alright?”

“I’m perfectly fine, Gregory,” said Mycroft. Inexplicably, his heart thrilled at the sound of concern in the voice on the phone. “It was a car bomb. Apparently, someone has it out for me.”

Greg let out a breath. “I couldn’t believe it when word reached me about it. Do you think it was one of Ferucci’s gang?”

“No way of telling, I’m afraid,” said Mycroft coolly, slipping off his shoes. “I suppose someone thought I needed to be sent a message.”

“It’s lucky that you weren’t in the car,” said Greg.

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “Sherlock’s timing is impeccable.”

“Sherlock?” said Greg.

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “He rang just as I was about to leave. Said something about having to tell me something important that he thought I should know and wanted to meet. That’s when the bomb went off and the line went dead.”

“Well,” said Greg. “That was lucky. Say, do you mind if I see you? Or is it too late?”

“Not at all, Gregory,” said Mycroft. “Come by the house. I’ll keep a light on. Use the back stairs.”

 

~080~

 

Greg hung up the phone and stared at it. He hated Mycroft Holmes. He was sick of being his slave. But the moment he had heard about the bombing… the moment he had heard that Mycroft survived… he felt like screaming and crying and throwing things. He had his suspicions about who and why, but now was not the time. Now he had to find out how Mycroft really was.

With measured control, he slipped on his overcoat and put his hat on. He had no idea that Mycroft meant so very much to him. He knew the man was his boss of sorts and he rankled under the collar put about him when it came to taking orders from him, but at the end of the day, he respected the man. Sherlock said that Greg looked up to Mycroft. Greg had to admit that the freak was right. But what’s more: Greg thought he might actually be in love.

He shook his head, gathered his keys and locked the door behind him. On the street, he lit a cigarette and walked to the corner to catch a cab. It was insane how his stomach was doing a mambo just thinking about seeing Mycroft again. He didn’t think he would calm down unless he laid eyes on the man. He had to see for himself that Mycroft was unharmed. It would be just like him to lie to him about his injuries should he have any. The man could be dying of a goddamn brain tumor and he would still manage to push off all concern with a soft smile and a wave of his hand. He was too unreachable sometimes. It would be the death of him.

The cab pulled up in Mayfair and Greg paid and got out. He lit another smoke. He would walk the next six streets over to get to Mycroft’s. No use leaving an obvious trail should the cabbie have recognized him. As it was, Mycroft was becoming more and more famous which was a hazard. Soon the man wouldn’t be able to go anywhere in England without being spotted. He had to cut down on the publicity. Ultimately it would be bad for business. Greg resolved to talk to him about this as soon as the heat was off regarding this bombing.

Although… Mycroft was smart; cleverest man that Greg had ever known – besides Sherlock that is. Surely he would have figured it all out about him being too high-profile and needing to cut back. Greg would probably be wasting his breath trying to tell him and would get a condescending smile as a reward. Greg hated that smile. The one that said: “Well aren’t you a good boy telling Father all that he already knew. How sweet.” Bah. Fuck that.

He stopped at the front steps and looked up at the facade. Columns framed the door and the house went up three stories. Someday Greg hoped to have a house just as big and impressive. An idle thought crossed his mind: perhaps he could just move in with Mycroft? He shook his head laughing at himself and crushed out his cigarette. Where did that thought come from?

He headed around to the back of the house by moving up one more street and doubling back through an alley that ran behind the houses. He rang the back bell and was surprised when Mycroft opened it himself. “Where’s George?” said Greg, expecting Mycroft’s butler.

“Off for the night,” said Mycroft as he ushered in the detective inspector. Greg took hold of the door and closed it tightly. He turned to Mycroft, taking in the man’s appearance by the soft light of the kitchen hood lamp. He didn’t have a mark on him. Greg shook his head. Of course he didn’t have a mark on him; he was Mycroft bloody Holmes.

“What are you grinning at?” asked Mycroft, arching an eyebrow.

“You,” said Greg. “You’re always so fucking… perfect. And here you are, fresh off a car bombing and murder attempt and you still look so fucking… perfect.” He leaned in close to him and grabbed Mycroft playfully by his loosened tie. “Even in your stocking feet and undone tie, you look like you’re headed off to church services or something.” He brought his face close to him. Breathing on his lips and running his eyes all over his face he said, “How do you do that?”

Mycroft smiled as he felt warm heat spread to his groin. “I haven’t the foggiest notion as to what you’re talking about, Gregory,” he said. “But I like to hear it all the same.”

“What say we take this conversation to someplace more… comfortable?” suggested Greg. Mycroft responded by kissing him gently.

“Come with me,” said Mycroft.

 

~080~

 

This time there were no orders given. It was a gentle, calm lovemaking. Greg didn’t want to be harsh or cruel – even if it was expected. He wanted to make sure that every part of Mycroft was safe and well.

For his part, Mycroft didn’t want the orders either. He needed to be cared for, but not in that way. It was as if Greg knew just what was required. All the man’s movements toward him were caring and sweet, gentle and loving. It was such a comfort to be undressed slowly, every part of his skin explored with loving care.

Once naked and in bed, kisses were placed along ribs, stomach, thighs, and ankles; each area specifically inspected for signs of trauma or injury. Once cursory inspection was completed, Greg moved up until his left arm cradled Mycroft under his neck and down his back, his rough hand splaying against the warm skin, angling the man toward him as they both lay on their sides facing each other. Satisfied that his lover was unharmed, Greg took Mycroft’s hardened cock in hand and began stroking it gently while placing small kisses to his face.

Mycroft had never felt so contented and sexually excited all at the same time. This was the slow burn of passion mixed with the comfort of a kind heart and he loved every second of it. He ran his hands up and down Greg’s chest, accepting his kisses and giving a few of his own in return. Greg wouldn’t let him touch his cock. “No, love,” Greg said, “this is all about you tonight, no one else. Leave me be. I’ll be fine.”

Mycroft relaxed into the gentle teasing pull on his cock and kissed Greg gently. Their tongues tangled, Greg deepening the kiss, and wrapped his hand more firmly around Mycroft’s thickening prick. He increased his rhythm and Mycroft moaned into Greg’s mouth, his hands running along his skin frantically.

Mycroft pulled his mouth away gasping for breath. Greg moved to his ear and in a low slow voice dripping with sex he said: “I’ve wanted you like this for so long, Myc. Just like this: my hand on your prick, your mouth on my skin. Jesus fuck, I can’t shake you. I can’t fucking shake the thought of you cumming all over my hand. I want to watch you cum for me. I want to see the moment that you tip… over the edge and spill all over me.”

He ran his thumb over Mycroft’s wet slit and pulled back his head to watch Mycroft unfold. He looked deliciously debauched: mouth hanging open, eyes shut, head tilted back exposing that long neck. Greg couldn’t resist. He placed a searing kiss to Mycroft’s Adam’s apple, sucking at it and grazing it with his teeth gently. Again he pulled away and watched Mycroft come undone. “You want to cum for me, don’t you, Myc?” he asked, licking his lips. “Well come on then, my boy. Cum for me.” He moved his hand to Mycroft’s balls and began to massage them. Mycroft’s legs parted, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he let out a lascivious moan that had Greg’s prick twitching with need. “Fucking hell,” Greg said and he stroked a fingertip past the man’s opening watching him gasp and arch his back.

He slid his hand back to Mycroft’s prick and gave a few more strokes before deciding to suck on his head for a while. He slid his body down, Mycroft lying on his back as a consequence. The tip was unsurprisingly wet and slick. Greg placed a soft kiss to the head and ran the tip of his tongue around the corona. He continued to stroke Mycroft off as he placed his mouth around the head itself and softly sucked, swirling his tongue about it, teasing Mycroft to orgasm.

When it hit, the only warning Greg got was: “G-gregory… please… AH! Damn it!” Greg pulled back in time to watch a writhing Mycroft arch his back and release all over his hand and Mycroft’s abdomen.

“Jesus Christ,” said Greg softly. “How beautiful are you, then?”

Mycroft wanted to respond with a “Haven’t you said that before?” and a laugh, but he couldn’t muster up the energy enough to speak in clear sentences. He gazed at Greg and then down at the man’s hardened prick with a question in his eyes.

“I told you, Myc,” said Greg. “don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“Now you,” said Mycroft.

Greg raised an eyebrow at him. “You want me to wank off right here?”

Mycroft nodded. “On me,” he said and rubbed a hand over his cum-coated stomach.

Greg swallowed hard and said, “Oh fuck, yes.” He took his prick in hand and watched Mycroft’s expression as he stroked himself off. “You like to watch, don’t you, you filthy boy,” said Greg. Mycroft only smiled. “Right then,” said Greg. “I’ll give you something to watch.” Greg knelt over Mycroft, straddling his legs and wanking off over top of him. Greg settled into position and tilted his head backward, watching Mycroft through narrowed eyes. He could feel Mycroft’s hands run up and down his thighs, but never touch his prick or balls. Mycroft really did want Greg to get there himself. 

His rhythm was steady at first, but soon became erratic; mostly because he had a naked Mycroft Holmes underneath him murmuring encouragement. Mycroft’s elegant voice was rendered small and soft as he said: “Good…. so good, Gregory… Just like that. Come on now… you can cum all over my chest. I want to feel your warm cum all over me. Please, Gregory… Please… I want to be filthy for you… only for you, my Gregory.”

These last words were made with a crack in Mycroft's voice that sent Greg over the edge. He shot his load all over Mycroft in a fevered burst, gasping and calling out: “Myc! Jesus fuck, Myc. Ah! Fuck!”

 

~080~

An hour later after they had gotten cleaned up, Greg was fast asleep in Mycroft’s bed. Mycroft watched the rise and fall of his chest in the moonlight. Carefully, he sat up, his back against the headboard and lit a cigarette.

As he smoked, he asked himself what he was so damned afraid of when it came to this man? Surely, his questions about his guilt or innocence were answered by his sincere behavior. Why, Gregory acted tonight in much the same way a man in love wou—

Dear God…

Mycroft watched Gregory breathe in the moonlight and for the first time ever, permitted himself to love him back.


	12. Collusion

“Gentlemen,” said Greg.

Sherlock and John looked up from their private table in the darkened corner of the club. “Greg,” said John. “Have a seat. We were just discussing the bombing.”

Greg slid into the round booth seat next to John. “Good. I want to talk about that too. I’ve got something to tell you both.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Greg spoke to Sherlock. “You remember we went to the nosy broad’s flat to eh… follow orders?” Sherlock nodded. “I wanted to fill you in on something.” John and Sherlock exchanged a look. “Jim gave me a ride home a few nights ago asking me where my loyalties lied.”

Greg held up a hand to the bartender. The bartender nodded and poured a whiskey, sending it over to the table. Greg downed it in one and looked back at Sherlock and John. Their faces held a look of curiosity, but they waited for Greg to finish. “I told the little creep to go to hell, in case you were wondering,” said Greg.

“Of course, that was just before anything began between you two,” said Sherlock.

Greg swallowed hard and his eyes flicked to John and back to Sherlock. Sherlock smirked, leaned forward and inconspicuously took John’s hand in his. Greg saw the motion and as soon as his brain registered what that meant, Sherlock took his hand away. Greg sat back in his chair and blew out a breath. “You have got to be joking,” he said.

John chuckled. “Sherlock filled me in about you and Mycroft,” he said. “I’ve got to say, I approve.”

“As do I,” said Sherlock. “My brother needs someone to take his mind off business. Someone he can still confide in and trust.” He looked meaningfully at Greg. “And he can trust you, can’t he, Greg?”

Greg took a long moment and answered simply: “I’m in love with the bastard.”

John and Sherlock both smiled. “Good,” said Sherlock. “It’ll keep you honest. Now why was Moriarty asking about your loyalty?”

“I think he’s looking to make a play,” said Greg.

“I think he already has,” said Sherlock. The three men paused to think. Greg raised his hand again and signaled for the table to have a round.

The waiter brought three glasses and attempted to pour the first drink when Greg’s hand stayed him. “Leave the bottle,” he said to the waiter.

Once the waiter left earshot, John said: “Meanwhile there’s Hudson to consider. Mycroft still expects her out of the way somehow. I know what we’re all doing toward that end, but what’s Moriarty doing? What’s his part in all this?”

“All I know is the little bastard’s playing both sides,” said Greg, pouring out drinks for them all. “Listen mates, I don’t care if I go to jail for how I feel about Mycroft. I’ll die protecting him and his interests. It’s true, I want a club of my own, but somehow… without him… it doesn’t mean a damn thing. If Jim’s got it out for him, I’m willing to keep tabs on Jim to save Mycroft – no matter what it takes.”

“Jim knows how bombs work, but not how to build one. Don’t you think?” said John.

“I disagree,” said Sherlock. “But I do know that he wouldn’t deign to get his hands dirty attaching one to a car.”

“So he had help,” said Greg. “Not…” Greg looked at John.

“No!” said John. “And it wasn’t you either, was it, you prat?”

“No,” said Greg. “So who then?”

“An unknown person or persons,” said Sherlock.

“We should ask Mycroft,” said Greg. “He would know.”

“Haven’t you asked him already?” asked Sherlock. “You were with him last night, weren’t you?”

“How did… ugh… fine. I was more concerned with figuring out if he was alright or not,” said Greg defensively. “Which is more than I can say for you, little brother.” He slammed back his whiskey and poured himself another.

“Say,” said John. “Take it easy with that stuff. I know you love the fella, but Mycroft would hardly approve of you drunk.”

Greg thought back to the last time Mycroft caught him pissed. He wasn’t pleased. It’s a look he never wished to see again on Mycroft’s face. Greg’s face went sour and he nodded. “Yeah, alright. I’m just upset is all.”

“Well,” said John. “I for one would like the Hudson situation handled. I can’t quite figure what Nycroft is up to, but I’m willing to accelerate his plans so we can deal with Moriarty.”

“I need more data,” said Sherlock. “I have to know who the missing piece is. Only then will we know how to proceed.”

“Agreed,” said Greg. “Can’t tell what play to make until you know who’s in the game.”

“Then let’s agree to meet back here tomorrow to discuss any further developments,” said Sherlock. “We’ll all do what we can to watch Moriarty and take note of who he associates with – especially if they’re a new face.”

The other men nodded. Sherlock poured John and himself a drink, raised his glass and said: “Gentlemen, to collusion.”

The other two exchanged a look and repeated “Collusion” and drank.

 

~080~

 

Seb smoked and looked out over the city. The view at midnight was clear as a bell. In Sebastian Moran's opinion, the only thing that would improve the view would be if the city were engulfed in flames. He heard footsteps behind him and turned quickly.

“Don’t shoot,” said Jim raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Well?” said Moran. “I did as you asked.”

“And as you wanted,” Jim amended.

“And it went tits up,” said Moran. “Any more bright ideas?”

“Millions,” said Jim. He took a cigarette out of his gold cigarette case and lit it with a rather expensive lighter. Moran eyed it enviously. Jim caught his stare. “You like it? Here,” he said, and tossed it to him. “Keep it.”

“It’s got diamonds in it?” Moran questioned, fascinated. “You sure you want to just give it away?”

Jim shrugged. “It’s an object. It means little. Just like everything else.”

Moran eyed him suspiciously. “Even people?” he asked.

“Especially people,” said Jim. “People are the most disposable thing of all. I mean, look at how they lead their lives: like sheep trapped in a maze. If they come across another sheep, they’ll blindly follow along. Trouble is, the second sheep is just as lost as the first. So they go ‘round and ‘round… and they never get anywhere.”

“Sheep,” said Moran thoughtfully. “You think I’m a sheep, do you?”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Why does everything have to be about you?”

“Because I’m the most important person I know,” said Moran.

Jim smiled. “You amuse me, Mr. Moran. I think I like you. You have the heart for utter destruction, but not the brains. And here I sit with all these brains and no desire to get my hands dirty."

“We’re well matched, then,” said Moran. “Are we the two sheep then?”

“Hardly,” said Jim. “But on a good day, we get to build the maze.”

“And yesterday was not so good,” said Moran.

“Tomorrow will be better,” said Jim. “Of that, I have no doubt.” Jim walked up closely to Moran and looked him in the eye. He had Jim by a good four inches, but Jim’s stare could intimidate anyone. To his credit, Moran kept eye contact with him, even when Jim got so close Moran could smell his cologne in the open air. “I just need to know if you’re still with me.”

Moran smirked. “If it takes down Mycroft and Hudson all at once, then yeah; I’m with you.”

Jim ran a hand over Moran’s shoulder and down one arm. He stopped at the man’s hand and held it. Moran did not hold his hand back. He waited for Jim to do something stupid. Jim smiled a knowing smile at him and beckoned his head closer to him with a crooked finger. Moran bent down, coming within a whisper from Jim’s face. “Glad to hear it,” said Jim. Moriarty suddenly grabbed Moran at the back of the head and kissed him viciously, biting into his bottom lip hard enough for it to bleed.

Moran shoved Moriarty away as quickly as he could and punched him hard enough to split Moriarty’s skin at the temple. As quickly as all that happened, Moran still couldn’t escape the thrill that went through him when their lips touched. And when Jim bit down on his lip… Jesus. 

Jim daubed a handkerchief to his cut face and laughed. It was a low slow chuckle that gave Moran gooseflesh. “Now, now, tiger. Pull in your claws. Daddy won’t hurt you.” Jim’s eyes darkened. “Much.”

Moran felt his cock twitch at this. He never understood his instant trust of Jim because he never trusted anyone. But with a kiss and a threat, he was under this man’s spell even more than before. He wanted Jim to bite him and leave a mark of ownership. He wanted to fuck Jim up the arse and own him back.

Moran threw his cigarette to the ground and grabbed Jim, throwing him up against the brick wall of the stairwell. “Careful!” said Jim. “If you knew how expensive this suit is—“

“So buy another one,” Moran growled and kissed Jim hard. His lip stung from the pressure, but Moran ignored it in favor of the taste of Jim Moriarty on his tongue. They gripped one another and tussled to get their clothes off enough to touch themselves against one another. Both men let out a moan when their cocks rubbed together in Moran’s hand.

“More, Seb,” said Jim. “I want more.” Their breath came in pants as they lowered their trousers and underwear. Seb hitched Jim’s knees up, spit on his hand, rubbed it on his cock, and pushed in. The pain was exquisite and Jim cried out deliciously for him.

“Is that what you needed, you cunt?” said Moran. He grunted as he pushed firmly into Jim, the saliva quickly drying and not providing much by way of lubrication. “Relax, Jimmy boy. Seb’s got you.” He felt Jim let go and he was able to push in a bit deeper. It took some doing, but both men let out a gasp of satisfaction when Seb’s head made it past Jim’s sphincter muscles. Messy kisses were exchanged when finally, after what seemed like hours of burning and stretching, Sebastian was balls-deep inside of Jim. “There’s a good Jimmy boy,” said Seb soothingly. “Relax around my hard cock and think about what beautiful pain you’re going to experience once I start moving again, eh? You want it, don’t you, you fucking whore.”

At first, Moriarty didn’t respond. He just looked at Moran with eyes as black as the night around them. “You want this too, don’t you, Sebastian? You want to rut against me and fuck me and make me scream, don’t you?” Seb nodded and became lost in Jim’s eyes. “Imagine,” said Jim, looking over Seb’s shoulder over the city, “Imagine if we set it all on fire and watched it burn. And you knew that only you and I were responsible for all of that lovely carnage. You’d want to fuck me even more than you do now, wouldn’t you?” Again Seb nodded, closing his eyes with the rapturous thought. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Sebby darling? All those dead and dying sheep bleating their last below us and you and I fucking ourselves senseless to their screams.”

“Oh God, Jim,” said Moran. He needed to move in the worst way. “Come on, bitch. Let’s fuck.” He pulled back slowly and rammed himself home just as slow. The pressure and pain were very present the second Moran moved and Jim let out a howl of delight at the torture.

“Fuck! FUCK!” cried Jim as Seb’s thrust became more and more powerful as his orgasm built up. “God yes, Sebastian! Take me. Take all of it. Do it. FUCK!”

Sebastian couldn’t hold out any longer, he came in thick bursts inside of Jim and cried aloud: “Mine, mine, mine, MINE! MINE! MINE!”

 

~080~

 

The cries of “Mine! Mine!” reached the ears of a figure smoking on a nearby rooftop. The glow of the lit tip lit the face of Greg Lestrade momentarily and the slow escape of smoke billowed out seconds after it had gone out. He had been watching the entire exchange, ever since the kiss and the punch.

Perfect, he thought as he crushed out his cigarette and walked away. Just perfect.


	13. Fire Fought With Fire

“You called?” said Jim, seated on the roof of the club. Sebastian was supposed to meet him that night, but he got a surprise call from Lestrade. His curiosity got the better of him and if he could have two hired guns under his command, well… who was he to refuse the DI an audience?

“I did,” said Greg. Greg was itching to push Moriarty over the edge of the roof as he sat there waiting, a smug expression on his face. “So glad you could spare the time,” Greg added.

“Anything for you, Greggie-poo,” said Jim, smiling grandly. “I take it you’ve given your stance a re-think.” His face fell into mock sadness. “Did the big bad Mycwoft hurt wittuw Gregums’ feewings?” Greg scowled at him. Jim dropped the pretense. “Fucked you and then turned you out, did he?”

“That is none of your-“ began Greg.

“Oh, but it is, Gregory,” said Jim. Greg rankled at the sound of his full name coming out of Jim’s mouth. As far as he was concerned, Mycroft was the only one who got to call him that. “If you’re choosing sides here,” said Jim, “and I like to think you are… You’ll realize that whatever you do from here on out is my business.” Jim’s eyes glittered like dark gems.

Greg cleared his throat and wiped his hand across his nose roughly. It was taking all he had to not kill this little worm. “So what would you have me do for you, Moriarty?” asked Greg.

“Whatever I wanted,” said Jim. “And you’d get your own club… eventually.”

Greg smirked. “You’d never give me a chance to breathe once you got your hooks in me,” he said. “You’d crush the life out of me if I tried to shake loose, wouldn’t you?”

Jim rolled his eyes, making a dismissive gesture with his hand, “Oh we can talk about that later, can’t we? Over dinner, perhaps?”

“You want to have dinner with me?” said Greg.

“I want to have dinner off of you,” said Jim smiling lecherously. “I really can’t see why Mycroft threw you back. If you were mine, I’d keep you in such style you’d always be grateful to me.” He stood and walked to Greg. Greg couldn’t stop a grin from spreading on his face. “Mmm…” said Jim. “I do love that smile.”

Greg was trying desperately to hide the fact that his stomach was churning at the thought of Jim Moriarty laying a hand on him, nevermind his tongue. He resisted the urge to punch his teeth down his throat and said: “I didn’t say I was changing sides. In fact, I didn’t even say I was choosing a side. And, despite the completely charming invitation to dinner, I really have to say that you thoroughly disgust me. And if you lay one hand on me, it will be the last conscious thing you remember.”

Jim grinned widely at this. “Oh… I do love a man with spirit!” He looked like a kid on Christmas. He attempted to grab Greg’s face and pull it toward his own. Greg batted his hands away easily and took a step backward. Jim clucked his tongue at him and shook his head. “Shouldn’t have done that, Greggy-boy,” said Jim. “Don’t make Daddy smack.” He wagged a finger in front of Greg’s face and suddenly slapped him hard across the face. “You won’t like it if Daddy smacks.”

Greg put a hand to his reddening cheek and glared at Jim. He couldn’t hit him. It would ruin everything. But he could rough him up enough to make it look like something. He pushed Jim up against the same brick wall Seb had him against only the night before; the only difference being Greg had his forearm across Jim’s throat and was slowly choking the life out of him. Greg snaked a knee up against his groin and pressed in. “I warned you that touching me would be the last thing you’d remember,” Greg said as he watched Jim slip slowly into an oxygen-starved state of unconsciousness.

Once Jim was completely out, he unbuttoned Jim’s shirt (being sure to break one button off) and held back a retching feeling as he sucked a fresh bruise onto Jim’s unconscious frame just under his collar, spitting out the taste once the hickey was left behind. Then Greg stood and mussed up his own hair, rubbed his mouth red and raw with the back of his hand, unbuttoned his shirt, skewed his tie, and unzipped his trousers. He took a small bottle of smelling salts from his pocket and held them under Moriarty’s nose. Once Jim showed vague signs of life, he legged it down the stairwell and prayed that John had managed to do his part.

 

~080~

 

Sebastian arrived at the club just as Sherlock predicted. He was the one to send the note to Seb asking him to meet Jim. And Jim was also sent a message conveying Seb’s desire to meet. Both men’s egos wouldn’t allow them to not show up; each man had thought himself the conqueror of the other.

John was at the bar when he saw Seb sit down at a table. “You new here?” said John.

Seb glanced at him, annoyed. “Not really,” he said curtly and turned back to watch the door for Jim.

“Because I haven’t seen you here before,” said John. He was nervous. He hadn’t actually ever pretended to be something he wasn’t before. Sherlock seemed convinced that he would be ace at it, but the more Seb ignored him, the more John felt it turn to shit. This was going to be more difficult than he imagined.

“Listen,” said Seb, “I’m not interested, alright? I’m here to meet someone.”

“Ah,” said John. “Of course you are. Good looking fella like you. You must have all the dames crazy.”

“Something like that,” muttered Seb.

“So there is someone special,” said John. Seb glared at him. John held up his hands. “I know, I know… None of my business. But seriously mate, if she’s got a sister…”

Seb chuckled. “I’ll ask her,” he said.

“Brilliant,” said John. “Let me buy you a drink.” He raised his hand for the bartender and smiled at Seb, motioning for him to follow him to the bar. Sebastian shrugged. One drink wouldn’t matter much and he could still watch the door from the bar.

“I tell you,” said John once they had their drinks in hand, “If I could count the number of broads that weren’t worth the trouble. Say, but I’m sure your doll is a right peach.”

“Yeah,” said Seb distractedly. “She’s a peach alright. And she’s fucking late.”

“Women,” said John.

Seb looked at his watch and then looked about the room. From where he stood in the room, he could see the front doorway, but he could also see the door that led to the rooftop. His eye was caught by someone coming through the rooftop door. He watched as the door opened and a disheveled silver-haired man came out. He was hurriedly rearranging his clothing: he buttoned up his shirt, straightened his tie, and looked around trying not to get noticed. As he moved forward into the room, he noticed that his trouser zipper was undone. He turned scarlet and looked about him nervously before turning quickly and obviously correcting the wardrobe snafu.

Just then, the rooftop door opened again and out stepped Jim. He gave the first man an obvious smirk of satisfaction. Jim was buttoning his shirt back up. Jim turned to the man and said something that the man smirked at and then walked away. When he turned, Seb noticed a bit of red brick dust on the back of Jim’s black suit jacket. Sebastian saw red.

“You alright, mate?” asked John.

“Piss off,” said Seb and he stormed toward Jim.

 

~080~

 

“What the fuck was that? A power play?” said Seb once he and Jim were in the back office.

“What the fuck are you on about?” said Jim.

“You fucking bastard,” said Seb. “If you think you can just use me, you’re sadly mistaken. I am not a fucking sheep.” Seb got right in Jim’s face. “You will not fuck me around, Jimmy-boy. I’ve news for you, you fuck.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Jim.

“This!” said Seb and he swiped some of the brick dust from off of Jim’s suit, holding it up for him to see. “Who the fuck was he?”

Jim laughed when he saw the brick dust. He laughed even harder when Seb asked who Greg was. Sebastian Moran did not take kindly to Jim’s laughter. “I’ll fucking end you, you prick.”

“Y-you think,” stuttered Jim through his laughter, “You th-think that… Oh God! Ha ha ha!” His statement was lost among the great peals of laughter that left his body. He was fairly crying.

Sebastian went quiet as he watched Jim double over. This was all a joke to him. Their dream of watching the city burn, of standing on the piled corpses of their enemies, was all a humorous lie to Jim Moriarty. “I’m waiting for an explanation, Moriarty.”

This statement sobered up Jim instantly. “I don’t explain myself to anyone,” he said. “Least of all little clinging bitches who can’t seem to realize when a one-night-stand is just that: one night!”

Sebastian was stunned as if shot. He felt the bile rise in his throat and he backed away from Jim until his back was against the door. He turned and fled.

Jim pulled a bottle out from the desk drawer and poured himself a glass. What a fucking pussy, he thought.

 

~080~

 

“Oh, Richard!” said Mrs. Hudson, “Orchids! They’re absolutely exquisite!”

Whatever can be said of Jim Moriarty, he did know how to charm a lady. And he especially enjoyed charming a lady whom he hated with all the power in his blackened soul. He smiled sweetly at her and said, “My dear Eugenia, they pale in comparison to you tonight.” He bowed low and kissed her hand gently.

Eugenia blushed deeply. “Richard Brook, you flatterer,” she said.

“Are you quite ready to go?” he asked.

“Of course,” said she, “I’ve been feeling so good lately that I really astonish myself. That good Doctor Watson I’ve been seeing has been ever so helpful. Now if he could only cure my hip, I’d be doing the rumba with all the younger set!” She laughed. Jim had never before been so annoyed by a laugh. Instead of strangling her, he smiled at her.

They arrived at Chez Louis precisely on the hour and were served by the sommelier. The rich burgundy liquid was poured expertly by the waiter and Eugenia and Richard never looked so in love. They barely noticed the other patrons. They barely noticed the musicians playing a romantic tune. They even barely noticed the wait staff -- which may have been why the bullet that went through Jim’s head was so thoroughly unexpected.

The restaurant was in an uproar immediately following the report. Two waiters were knocked unconscious and the front plate glass window was shattered by a chair. A man was reported to have fled the scene. Most people described him as a well-built blonde but none could give any more description other than that he was dressed as a waiter.


	14. And the Devil Wins

Mycroft Homes smiled over his backroom table. He raised his glass to Sherlock, John, and Gregory. “Gentlemen… gentlemen,” said Mycroft. “This is the best result I could have hoped for, if I do say so myself.”

“So glad someone else could make you happy,” said Sherlock with a trace of disgust.

“Oh no,” said Mycroft. “Each of you played your parts perfectly.” John and Greg exchanged a look of curiosity. Sherlock shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Mycroft grinned widely.

“Stupid, stupid,” mumbled Sherlock.

“Oh now, brother,” said Mycroft. “Don’t beat yourself up over this. You are who you are. And I was counting on you being true to your nature. And so you were.”

“You mean to tell me,” said Greg slowly as his brain caught up, “that all of this was part of the plan to get rid of Hudson?”

“No, dear Gregory,” said Mycroft.

“The plan was to get rid of Moriarty,” said Sherlock. “Without him being the wiser – or any less dead by the end.”

John chimed in: “And because Moriarty got whacked by some other bloke outside our outfit…”

“…your hands remain clean,” finished Greg.

“Our hands remain clean,” corrected Mycroft gently.

“Brilliant,” said Greg softly. Mycroft blushed slightly under his gaze.

“Careful, Lestrade,” said Sherlock. “You’re beginning to sound like John.”

Each man exchanged a sly smile at this. They raised their glasses in a toast. “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” said Mycroft. The toast was followed by a round of “hear, hear” and all the men drank.

“Yes,” said Mycroft, savoring the color and smell of the whiskey in his hand. “And of course, Mrs. Hudson having a nervous breakdown because of the tragedy was an unexpected bonus. With her out of the political spotlight, we can continue our businesses uninhibited.” He raised his glass again and smiled at them all. They raised their glasses back at him and Greg caught Mycroft’s eye and winked at him.

 

~080~

 

Greg aggressively pushed Mycroft up against the wall of his kitchen at his mansion. He pressed a bruising kiss against his mouth and licked at Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft moaned and grabbed a handful of Greg’s hair, his other hand pulling Greg’s hips closer to him. Their kiss lasted mere seconds before Greg ripped it away and growled into Mycroft’s ear: “You make me so fucking insane. I have to have you.”

“So take me,” said Mycroft with a devilish wink.

Greg pulled them together for another passionate snog, tongues brushing, moans echoing in the empty kitchen. Greg had come in by the back door as usual, but as soon as he had entered and seen Mycroft in his crisp white shirt, no tie, and the top button undone, he simply lost his mind.

Furniture squeaked aside as Greg and Mycroft made their way violently to the bedroom upstairs: the kitchen table pressed into Mycroft’s back as Greg bent him over it, the counters did the same to Greg as Mycroft pushed back, the sofa was shoved aside as both men fell against the back of it as they passed. Neither man stopped to say a word about it, they were both much too intent on the opportunities for momentary frottage and sloppy kissing brought about by their urgent need to press up against each other’s naked frames. Step by step up the stairs, they pushed against the banister, and the wall, and once - only because Mycroft slipped trying to toe off his shoes – they lay on the stairs themselves, Greg pressing his raging erection against Mycroft’s thigh as they both fought to get their clothing (and each other) off.

The bedroom door slammed against the wall as the two lovers grappled with the last of their clothing: belts and trousers. Their shirts they had done away with on the stairs landing… or was it in the living room? It didn’t matter. Neither man cared; the bed was their ultimate goal.

They fell heavily upon it: Greg on top of Mycroft. Greg bit Mycroft’s lip viciously before uttering: “I am going to fuck you straight through this mattress, Mycroft Holmes.”

“Son of a… God yes,” said Mycroft. His pupils had blown wide with Greg’s statement. He was impossibly hard now.

Greg grabbed Mycroft’s pants at both sides of his hips and tugged them off in almost one go. He bit the inside of Mycroft’s thigh playfully, enjoying Mycroft’s gasp and cry of surprise. He nuzzled around the underside of his balls, leaving little licks, teasing the sensitive tissue. He intentionally ignored Mycroft’s erection.

Sucking, licking, biting, and kissing all around a man’s cock without actually touching it was enough to drive anyone mad – even the always-in-control Mycroft Holmes. “Greg! Please!” he gasped. “Do it. Fucking suck me off! God damn it!”

That was just what Greg had been waiting for. Mycroft liked taking orders from Gregory in their private moments. So, Greg would give him some. “No,” he said and he backed away from Mycroft entirely. Mycroft’s eyes flew open and he stared at the detective inspector. “You don’t get to give the orders here, Myc, remember?” Mycroft’s eyes relaxed and he faintly smiled. He lay his head back down against the pillows and waited for Greg to do as he pleased. He cock throbbed, but it was so much more enjoyable to be given permission to cum. And Jesus, could Greg give an order…

“Roll over, you slut,” said Greg. “On all fours. Now.”

Mycroft obeyed without a second thought and Greg just about died. He was so compliant; it was hard to believe that this one man was basically the backbone of the British organized crime syndicate. But, Greg supposed, that’s what comes from giving orders all day: your word is never questioned, your commands always carried out to the letter – things get boring. So you need a change. And Mycroft was a man who was used to being obeyed. So when he was off the clock, he would want someone else to take over for a while. Greg was only too happy to oblige.

Greg smacked Mycroft’s arse with his open hand. Mycroft cried out in surprise but didn’t object. He repeated the action and said, “This is for not letting me in on your plans, Mycroft Holmes.” A third strike hit Mycroft’s tender flesh and he looked around at Greg. His buttocks were turning red, but Greg was not done. 

“Turn around and suck my cock,” said Greg. Mycroft swung himself around, pulled down Greg’s pants, and swallowed Greg down in one. Greg almost came from the sensation, his cock straining upwards, precum dripping from the head. Mycroft darted his tongue around his shaft and encircled the head, flicking at the frenulum. “Fuck!” said Greg as Mycroft’s expert tongue had his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

Several minutes and a couple dozen epithets later, Greg guided Mycroft’s mouth back to his own. He hadn’t cum, but then, neither had Mycroft. Salty and bitter mixed with the taste that was all Mycroft as their kiss deepened. Greg took hold of both of their cocks in his hand and began thrusting against his lover. Kisses trailed down jawlines and collarbones, across shoulders and up throats until both men were panting hard with their efforts and still weren’t satisfied.

“I’ve got to cum, Myc,” said Greg. “Inside you. Come on. On your back.” Mycroft lay on his back, knees up and waited for Greg to come back with the condom and lubricant. Greg sucked on Mycroft’s nipples as he prepared him: he slowly inserted one finger, then two, scissoring them apart until Mycroft was ready.

The first entry was always the best for both: the warm wet of Mycroft’s willing hole, the hard pressure of Greg’s prick inside. It was bliss. And when they finally moved, one within the other, it was the moment that they had both been anticipating ever since Mycroft had raised his glass in a toast in the back room of that speakeasy. Hell, it was a moment they had anticipated ever since they first met all those years ago.

As his orgasm washed over him and he stared into Mycroft’s crystal blue eyes, Greg realized that he would have so many more opportunities with this amazing man. Not only because they were to become business partners in a rather lucrative business, but that from now on they couldn’t – no… wouldn’t -- be parted. It was fate, kismet. They were meant to be here, always. The end of days could happen and Greg knew he would always stand by Mycroft’s side: his ever-faithful Horseman.


End file.
